


can't forget about you still

by annejumps



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Humiliation, M/M, Pre-IT Chapter Two (2019), Repression, Richie Tozier's Internalized Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:14:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24200416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps
Summary: He’s naked in these… visions, always, and the man is always clothed, and Richie wants him with his entire being. It seems like he always has. He wants his kisses, biting and bruising though they might be, although Richie is hopeful they’d be sweet nonetheless; he wants his touch, his whispered words in his ear, his love. He knows he won’t get any of it.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	can't forget about you still

Richie doesn’t know who the man is, the man he keeps seeing in his… dreams? _Are_ they dreams? Anyway, they’re more or less the same, every time.

It seems like, when he tries to remember, he can’t see the man’s face; can’t remember if he was awake and lying in bed when it started, or if he was really asleep. They don’t really feel like dreams, yet they don’t also feel like… anything else. They feel very real… but they can’t be, right? When he… wakes up, or snaps out of it, he’s always alone.

There’s something familiar about the man, but at the same time, Richie doesn’t think he actually knows him. The man has dark hair, dark eyes, and Richie feels like maybe he knew him once, but it was a long time ago, and he didn’t look like this back then, whenever Richie knew him—maybe he was younger. Maybe they both were. But whoever he is, he’s somehow still the same. Richie might not know him, but he _knows_ him, and more importantly, the man knows Richie, to his core.

It’s confusing that way.

What’s not confusing is what the man’s presence does to his dick.

Just having him in the… room, wherever he is when this happens, gets Richie immediately, desperately hard, as rawly _wanting_ as a frustrated teenager. He’s naked in these… visions, always, and the man is always clothed, and Richie wants him with his entire being. It seems like he always has. He wants his kisses, biting and bruising though they might be, although Richie is hopeful they’d be sweet nonetheless; he wants his touch, his whispered words in his ear, his love. He knows he won’t get any of it.

The man’s contempt and disgust for his naked state, especially his erection, is clear. “You’re _disgusting_ ,” the man hisses, low. “You’re _sick_.” He always starts with that, Richie realizes every time after the first.

Richie’s stomach lurches, but his dick just gets harder, and he has to wrap a hand around it to try and get some relief, but of course it’s no relief. He wants to say _What, not even a ‘hi, how are you?’_ but for some reason he doesn’t. He never does.

“I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to see you like this,” the man says, arms folded. He’s still staring at Richie with those eyes Richie can never quite fully remember afterward until he sees them again, except that he can remember how cold they are, how large and dark. They seem to burn right through him. 

His cock throbs painfully under the man’s knowing, judging gaze. Richie can’t keep his hand still any longer; he has to stroke himself. He’s leaking all over his fingers, wet and messy. He can’t control it, no more than he can control anything else when this happens.

“You’re so fucking disgusting, Richie,” the man spits, with conviction, with finality. 

“I know, I know I am,” Richie whispers, closing his eyes for a moment against a wave of nausea, at how fucking hard his cock gets in his hand at the man’s voice, impossibly harder. 

He feels achingly empty, suddenly, and tilts his hips up, his other hand moving so he can wet his fingers and get them inside himself, his motions practiced but no less furtive even now after however many times it’s been. Three fingers in and it’s still not enough, it’s never enough, he craves more, craves something big and thick giving him what he needs, something he knows he won’t get…. Oh, he’s been fucked before and well; he might be in the closet but he gets around. But none of that matters now, because what he really wants, he knows the man won’t give him. He feels like a bottomless pit of need, of impossible hunger that can’t be sated. He feels cursed.

The man scoffs; he doesn’t give a shit. “Can’t even fucking control yourself. I can’t believe you want this, that you like this. I can’t believe you let me see you this way,” he adds, in a hiss of grim disappointment.

Richie, exposed in a way that’s far more than just physical, can’t hold back a groan, fingers pressing against his prostate. He wants the man to be doing this; he knows he won’t get that.

“I’m not going to touch you, you know. You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve me touching you.” 

Richie knows. He’s always known.

The man continues, face twisted in revulsion. He gestures impatiently like Richie can’t get this through his thick skull no matter how often he’s told; his hand cuts the air like a knife, a mannerism Richie knows well, either from whatever it is he knows of the man, or from these times, or both. “You know I don’t want this, right? I never asked to see you like this. I’m not like you. I would _never_ ,” he says, clear as day, in a tone that rings Richie’s memory like a bell before whatever his mind is trying to latch on is promptly swept away, “want to see you do this, or want to do this for you. I would _never want you_. You _know_ that, right, Richie?”

“I know,” Richie whispers, mouth dry. _I get it. You don’t have to fucking lay it on so thick_ , he always wants to say. But again, he never does. Richie probably needs to hear it.

“I’ll fucking tell everybody, Richie,” the man says, contemptuous. “I’ll tell them all how _disgusting_ you are.”

“Fuck,” Richie mutters, pushing his fingers in deeper. He squeezes his cock, _hard_ , strokes himself faster. It’s the sweet side of hurt—his fingers are prodding too firmly and too deep, his pace and his grip are too punishing—but it feels so good, and he can’t stop. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, he knows by now.

He likes it when it hurts like this.

The man continues. “How greedy you are, how depraved. Your sick secret. Everybody will know how dirty you are. The fucked-up shit you crave. How you want to be fucked, you want to be _used_.” The man doesn’t have to add “by me.” They both know.

Like every time, when he comes he’s staring directly into the man’s eyes, which are as hard as black coals, his brow drawn together and his lips drawn back in a sneer. The man hates him, hates his need, his helpless and stupid and useless need for _him_. He knows Richie can’t stop wanting him, and he despises him for it. Richie might despise himself for it, too, but he can’t despise the man. He just can’t do it.

When Richie… wakes up, he’s clothed, sweating into his suit on the comforter of a hotel bed in a dark room. He’s alone, a stink of panic to the air like he’s been sweating out sour alcohol, only he’s not hungover. He’s come in his pants, and he can’t go anywhere like this. He’s got to take a shower, and change.

He’s got to get himself together.

He has a show tonight, after all.

Once he’s up, his head starts to clear almost immediately, and he’s struggling to remember what happened, but something in him doesn’t want to and won’t let him. That’s fine. Whatever it is, he knows it’ll happen again, regardless of what he wants. He knows he won’t forget all of it, that he’ll remember once it starts again.

Right before his show, someone named Mike Hanlon, from somewhere known as Derry, calls him.

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy The Yeah Yeah Yeahs.


End file.
